Dinner?
by blogyourfeelings
Summary: For the man that swore Molly Hooper off dating, Sherlock Holmes has asked her on a fair amount of dates. And despite having a criminally bad taste in men, she's managed to turn him down with surprising resolve.


The first time he ever hints at the possibility a date is of course, in his brass, ill-time Sherlockian manner, when they finish the romantic business of how to fake his suicide.

Her brain is completely frazzled, after hours and hours of intricate planning, and calculations, and complex logistics of how to cheat death and get away with it. All under the eye of a crazed, meticulous Irishman who's out for blood.

"I very much appreciate your help, Molly," He tells her as he hovers at morgue door, seeming reluctant to leave.

"I told you if you needed help, I'm always here for you," She assures. She fiddles anxiously with the sleeve of her cherry cardigan, because despite all the detailed plans they've crafted, the possibility it could all go to hell is still looming.

"That doesn't mean I'm not grateful," Sherlock insists. He moves away from the door to shift closer to her in long, languid steps. His lips tilt into cheeky half smirk, allowing the sharpness of his cheeks to be illuminated by harsh laboratory light. "Perhaps when I'm back I can take you for dinner. As a thank you."

Molly cannot help be warmed by Sherlock's certainty that he will survive whatever ordeal Moriarty has in store for him. Sherlock has placed a great deal of faith in her, in his brother, and all the other participants in this extensive plan. That when he jumps, they are all there to catch him.

It's not really a refusal, rather a deflection onto a more pressing subject. "Let's just focus on keeping you alive first."

* * *

><p>"Molly…would you like to-"<p>

"Have dinner?"

"Solve crimes with me?"

Their words stumble over each other, but Molly doesn't allow herself to thrown by the curve-ball. She's pleased if anything, because it wouldn't be right to go out to dinner with him. Not now, with a heavy weight of a sparkling ring on her finger.

Solving crimes with Sherlock Holmes is a much less intimate affair- ending marriages, breaking some gullible lady's heart, attending fake crime-scenes. The offer of fish and chips has torn but she decides in end that a quipped joke is the best route. To keep the air between them light, to cling to the pretense that her feelings for him are friendly, platonic. No threat to the life she's built with Tom.

Tenderness is not a trait Sherlock is renowned for but it's so achingly evident in his eyes, in his words, in his kiss. There's vulnerability in depth of his blue-green eyes, like she spotted in him before the Fall. It's so difficult not to take deeper meaning in his words, to allow herself to think she is the one who mattered the most to him, and not just as a helping hand in a ploy to save his life.

She won't have stood a chance if he asked her again to go to dinner after bestowing her rosy cheek with a kiss. But he doesn't, so she watches him depart, resolving to head back to the home her and Tom share, but she can't shake the feeling where she belongs is strolling off into distance.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you scared the life out of me!" She exclaims, her hands clutching her chest, letting the pot she's stirring soup in to boil away in the background. She huffs at the sight of him, pale and thin. "You should still be in hospital."

"Boring." He replies, though his bent posture shows how his steady reduction in morphine is causing him pain.

"The last time you left your hospital bed, they had to restart your heart. _Again_," She spits, glaring at him for being so careless with his life. "Maybe it won't be a third time lucky."

"It wasn't luck," He denies. His eyes have that vulnerable glint to them that she can hardly bare to look at. They glisten with pain that appears not to be physical. "I had help."

"Well either way," She counters, sighing heavily. These few months have been terribly draining- an emotional break up with Tom, Sherlock's infuriating antics- have all piled up, leaving her utterly exhausted. "I'm taking you back to hospital."

Sherlock looks unmoved by her statement. "Fine, on the way we can get some dinner." He says, smirking at her angry, burning red cheeks. His eyes shift to over her shoulder, now alight with amusement. "Because it looks like yours is a bit burnt."

She whips round, to her scalded lentil soup, the burned liquid sizzling at the edges of the pot. Groaning, she turns her head back to a smug looking consulting detective. This time, she responds with clear decline of his offer, gritting out of her clenched teeth. "Hospital. Now."

* * *

><p>"So let me get this straight, you relapsed, pretended to date Janine and got shot for the Magnussen case? And then you shot him to save John and Mary?"<p>

"Correct." Sherlock confirms.

"Why would you need to kill him to protect them?" Molly inquires, confusion in the quirk of her eyebrow.

"That's not my story to tell." He responds, his mouth set in a firm line, but his blue eyes are pleading.

"Okay," She sighs, her mind still in a whirlwind from today's events, so she doesn't gave the brain power to put together all the pieces of the puzzle just yet. In fact, her mind has been a mess ever since he turned up at her door, talking in riddles about life and death and sentiment, only to tell her his time was up and there was nothing either of them could do to stop it. But all thoughts about that had to be put on hold as there were more impending things to focus on. "So, the Moriarty message, is it real?"

Sherlock eyes fall down on her like a stormy sea wave. "It can't be, he's dead," Sherlock assures, though he doesn't look completely convinced himself.

"You're supposed to be dead," Molly argues, an angry frown on her lips, unsuited to her usually cheerful face. She's not just referring to The Fall, but also his other brushes with death at the hands of a bullet, and more recently, a suicide mission.

"But I had you," Sherlock replies, reaching out to brush his fingertip along her cheek. His eyes are lost in a storm of thought. His head tilts, but his eyes maintain the same depth, rippling and rising with an unknown emotion. "I never did take you to that dinner."

His soft words are etched with regret, his touch so gentle against her skin, that despite the lingering qualms she still has with him, she feels compelled to comfort him. "Maybe one day you will."

* * *

><p>The return of Moriarty turns out to be awful ploy by the covert, remaining members of his organisation. It's all a bit of an anti-climax, after the immediate flurry of panic, but she gets to go back to the comfort of her own home, to return to the cold familiarity of the morgue, so she doesn't complain. She supposes the universe owed her a change of luck.<p>

Now, the only lurking figure she has to worry about, whether in the lab or in her flat, is Sherlock Holmes.

The curly haired detective is persistent, she'll grant him that.

"I have booked us dinner at Angelo's at eight on Friday," He informs her, one Monday he drops by the morgue for a case.

John and Greg, who are accompanying him to examine the victim's body, gape up at the detective.

"No."

Sherlock's gaze, which was fixed on the screen of his mobile, reels up to her. "No?" He repeats, looking as though the word tastes sour in his mouth.

John's eyes, now gawping at Molly, are wide as saucers. Greg barely manages to contain the grin that's fighting to break across his face. He looks as though he considering photographing Sherlock's stunned face.

"No." Molly replies, firm in her tone. She straightens her shoulders, turning on her heel, her ponytail swaying as she heads back to her office.

To accept his invitation- she feels- is to dismiss, to condone, the terrible impact his words have wreaked, the damage, the hurt, he has caused this past year. It's a victory, but the empty, soul-less sort of victory that she derives no joy from.

* * *

><p>It's Friday afternoon before the silence between them is broken by a buzz of her phone.<p>

Come to Baker Street tonight at 8. -SH

If you're not busy.-SH

Please.- SH

The plea proves to her downfall, dragging her all the way from her flat to the top of the stairs to 221B.

"Sherlock?" Molly calls out, letting the door that was left ajar to creep open. Her ears pick up on soft violin music, the romantic sounds floating from Sherlock's phone.

"Good evening, Molly," Sherlock greets, dressed in a purple dress shirt and sleek black trousers. He extends a wine glass out to her and offers his arm to take her coat.

She takes a welcoming gulp of the red liquid, but makes no move to remove her coat. "What's this?" She asks, trying not to rush to conclusions, because she's been burned by her own assumptions before.

"We're having dinner," He answers, his tone verging on patronising, despite his eyes shifting nervously from the kitchen back to her. "I thought that was rather obvious."

By some restraint on her part, she manages to keep her words calm, and somewhat civil. She places her glass down on the table with unnecessary force. "I thought I made it obvious I didn't want to."

"Well, yes- but-" Sherlock stutters, looking out of sorts.

"But what Sherlock? You think one dinner is going to make for everything?" She demands, fists clenching to try to contain her fury. To push away her emotions, but they are straining at the seams, ready to burst. "For the lies and the drugs and everything else. You can't just kiss me on cheek and expect everything to be okay anymore!"

"I know that," Sherlock concedes, taking on the appearance of a kicked puppy. "What do you need me to do?" He asks, eyes glimmering in the dim, enchanting candlelight.

Molly is silent for a moment. "I don't know," She answers, because it truth. Forgiveness is something she has given away far too cheaply in the past, and she wishes more than anything not to repeat her previous mistakes.

"John and Greg suggested this," Sherlock admits, awkwardly gesturing around the room. "Mary said it was an idiotic idea, and you'd probably end up slapping me again," He continues, his nervous gaze scanning for any twitch of movement or emotion.

"Trust me, I considered it," She quips, managing a half-smile. It's increasingly difficult to stay angry at the consulting detective, especially when he appears so chastised and earnest. "I try and save them for when you really need them."

Sherlock gives a knowing smile. "Yes, you do." He says, with a reverence in his voice Molly cannot understand. "Molly, I know I've been misguided in my attempts, no doubt I will make many more mistakes in the future, but I'd like very much to earn your forgiveness for my behaviour.."

"I think I just need time, Sherlock," Molly interrupts, feeling shaken by his speech. Her heart swells at the intensity in of his eyes, the sincerity of his expression. The voice of reason in the back of her head screams at her to flee, to get away from the dangerous combination of twinkling candlelight and the powerful eloquence of his words. "Then we can go back to how things were."

Sherlock appears to mull over the words. "Ah," He breathes out. "Mary also advised that informing you of my feelings might be a good idea."

"I know your feelings, Sherlock-" His name sticks in her throat, as soon as her eyes snap back to his. It's reminiscent to vulnerability in the morgue when he asks her to help save his life. To the fondness he's displayed through off-colour jokes, awkward compliments and the occasional cheek kiss. It's a myriad of emotion in one look, but it's emanating one with the most power. "No-" She whispers, shaking her head, trying to rid herself of these silly thoughts that can only lead to further heartbreak.

"I'm afraid so," Sherlock confirms, but the words are spoken as shakily as she feels.

"And this asking me to dinner thing.."

"I was trying to tell you how I feel, yes. Not my best idea, I'll admit." Sherlock concedes with a rueful smile, as he rubs the back of his neck.

"I see," Molly breaths out, her mind reeling in revelation. It's all feels too surreal, akin to one of her daft dreams where the dashing, handsome man, for whatever unlikely reason, wants her.

"Molly-" Sherlock begins, his expression lost, as if he's unsure of how to proceed.

"Fancy some chips?"

Wide blue eyes fix on her. "What?"

They've always communicated in strange ways. Through strange phrases, and stunted conversations, because when it comes down to it, they know how to understand each other. "I said," She chimes out, a big, dimple bearing grin on her face. "Do you, Sherlock Holmes, fancy some chips?"

It's a not statement of forgiveness, or an eradication of the heartache she's had to endure because of him, and herself. It's a baby step, a chance, an extension of hope that he grasps onto as he slips his hand around hers.

They leave behind the ambient candle-light, the extravagant home-cooked meal and melodic music. Instead, they brave the cold to walk in the moonlight, followed by the relentless sounds of the London streets, unable to resist sneaking each other hearty grins as they indulge in their long overdue dinner.


End file.
